by Betty Neels
She felt a quite unexpected sob choke her, but she swallowed it down, attacked the snow once more, and prised the door open. There was a spade inside and even better, a snow shovel, rather large and heavy, but it would do the job much faster. Perhaps she could get Pooley to help her. There was no coal, though. She dragged the spade and shovel outside and shut the door and started back to the house, to search the back wall for a likely door which might lead to coal. She found it presently, dug it free, and opened it. There was coal enough and stacks of logs, too, it was just a question of getting it to the house. She would need a wheelbarrow, and there was one in the shed. She toiled back the way she had come, this time shovelling a narrow path, fetched the wheelbarrow, and returned to the coalhouse. She was a strong girl and not impatient, which was just as well, because it took time to fill the barrow and almost as long to get it to the kitchen door. She had to thump for some time before Pooley came to open it and then wait while she found coal scuttles and buckets, and then gingerly help to transfer the coal.
`My lady wants her coffee,' Pooley moaned.
`So do I,' said Jemima. `I'm going to get a load of logs and firewood-do listen out for me, Pooley.'
The logs were easier, and lighter too. She flung them in a heap on to the kitchen floor and went back for more and then once again, this time for more coal which she left in the wheelbarrow just outside the door. She was tired now, but this afternoon she decided to get another load of wood and stack it by the barrow. The snow was holding off, but the sky
was a very nasty colour and the wind, which had died down, was beginning to blow again. She stumped inside, kicked off the boots and pulled off her sodden anorak and cap, then sat down thankfully to drink the coffee Pooley had ready. She looked at the unhappy middle-aged face opposite her and decided that there was bad news. She was right.
`The telephone's out of order.'
'I'm not surprised, are you? Who did you try to get?"
'My lady wanted to speak to Martha, and then I tried the post office in the village. The line's dead.'
`Oh, well, we'll manage. I'm going to tidy myself and go and talk to Lady Manderly.'
Her employer she found sitting before the fire in the sitting-room, working at her embroidery with a martyred air. She put the canvas down with deliberation and eyed Jemima coldly.
'Ah, Jemima. Am I to have the pleasure of your company after all? I supposed I was to sit here in neglect for the whole day.'
`Perhaps Pooley didn't explain very well,' said Jemima, pleasantly matter-of-fact. `I've been fetching and carrying coal and wood and checking the food in the house, and if I'm to cook the meals and clear the snow away from the doors, I'm afraid I can't be here as well. Pooley doesn't cook and I don't think she's strong enough to shovel snow. She's doing the housework, though.' She added kindly, `Probably this snow won't last, but I think we ought to prepare for the worst, don't you?"
'You're being over-anxious, Jemima, but if you feel you must do these things, then by all means do them-they make a splendid excuse for leaving me to my own devices.' Lady Manderly allowed a shudder to shake her considerable frame. `I am quite at your mercy.'
Jemima, whose feet were still cold and who saw nothing but a day of cooking and shovelling snow and humping coal before her, spoke quite sharply. `That's nonsense, Lady Manderly. And if you're lonely, you could come down to the kitchen and help get the lunch.'
She flounced out without waiting to hear her companion's horrified answer.
Well, I'm leaving anyway, she reminded herself as she raced downstairs, and even if she sacks me I can't leave until there's a road clear.
She had another cup of coffee when she got back to the kitchen and laid a tray for Lady Manderly's lunch, set out the ingredients for an omelette, made Melba toast, and opened a can of soup. There weren't enough eggs for all of them; she and Pooley would have to be content with the soup and toast. It was a disaster that the larder should be so empty, and her opinion of Martha fell sharply. If the snow didn't thaw in a couple of days they would have to live on caviare and the other delicacies in the cupboard. She peeled potatoes-and there weren't many of those left eithercleaned some leeks and scraped the last of the carrots ready for Lady Manderly's dinner, then got back into her still damp things, pulled on the boots and went outside again. There might be potatoes in one of the outhouses, the difficulty was getting to them. She gave up presently and struggled back and forth with more logs and finding another bucket, filled that with coal before getting the shovel and starting to carve a path around the side of the house. The snow had drifted thickly against one wall and there seemed no point in trying to shift it; besides, the wind was fast becoming a gale and it was freezing. She tried the other way, working round to the front of the house, and had just cleared a narrow track when it started to snow again, gently at first but caught now and then by a gust of wind, so cold that her face was numb. She went back to the kitchen door and as she opened it remembered that the water pipes would probably freeze.
She threw off her things, got out of the boots and padded round the kitchen, the pantry and several small dark empty rooms leading out of the kitchen, but she couldn't even see anything which looked like a main water tap.
And Pooley was no help, bleating about the snow, coming down in earnest now, declaring that they would all die of cold and hunger.
`Oh, stuff,' said Jemima crossly, and then seeing the look on Pooley's face, `I'm sorryI'm a bit tired. I'm going to see Lady Manderly... '
`Like that, miss?' asked her companion, appalled.
`No time to doll myself up,' said Jemima, although she might have done something about the state of her hair and face if she'd found a mirror to look into.
She hardly noticed Lady Manderly's outraged glance but plunged at once into urgent questions.
'I'm trying to find the water main tap,' she began. `It's getting much colder and if it freezes really hard we'll get burst pipes.'
`I,' declared Lady Manderly with ice in her voice, `am not a plumber.'
`No, I know-but could you please try and remember if there's a tap to turn off the water somewhere in this house, Lady Manderly.'
`I have no idea, Jemima, and I'm not interested in the subject. I hope I'm to have my lunch at the usual hour. You look quite unkempt. I suggest that you tidy yourself and return here; my embroidery silks are hopelessly tangled.'
Jemima, her head full of burst pipes, stared at her. 'I'm sorry, Lady Manderly, but I have to get your lunch; I'll try and find time this afternoon to see to the silks.' She made up the fire and remembered uneasily that if the weather got worse and the oil froze or the electricity went off, there would be no central heating. She was getting as bad as poor Pooley, imagining the worst.
Only by the time they had finished their lunch imagination didn't come into it; the sky had darkened and the snow, whipped into a frenzy by the wind, was piled up against the windows, so that it was already dark. They cleared the table together and went in search of lamps and candles. They found two oil lamps and a can of oil in a cupboard lining a passage leading from the kitchen to a labyrinth of small rooms, and a dozen or so candles. There was a torch too, and matches.
`Do you suppose the electricity will be on?' enquired Pooley, and shivered. `It's ever so quiet, isn't it?'
Jemima switched on the kitchen light and said hearteningly: `There, you see-we can switch on the television in the drawing-room, though it'll be too cold to stay there, and I'll ask Lady Manderly what the news is on the radio. I wish there was another set in the house.'
She stoked up the Aga again, prepared the vegetables for dinner, made a fruit salad from a variety of tins, and turned her attention to the chicken, while Pooley went in search of more blankets.
The wind was howling and moaning by now and although it was only mid-afternoon, it was dark. Jemima finished with the chicken and went along to see Lady Manderly and find out how she was faring. She had left her with a pile of books by the fire and a reading lamp at h
er elbow.
The room was in darkness save for the firelight. `And how long must I wait for someone to turn on the lights for me?' demanded Lady Manderly.
Jemima switched on the table lamp. `I don't think you quite understand, Lady Manderly,' she said in a voice which she strove hard to keep pleasant. `There are only the three of us here; we've been busy all day keeping the fires going and getting meals and clearing up...' It didn't sound much put like that, and she was too tired to explain about fetching coal and wood-besides, she had said it all once.
She drew the heavy curtains across the windows and Lady Manderly asked grumpily: `Is the telephone repaired yet?'
Jemima crossed the room and lifted the receiver and dialled and nothing happened. `I am greatly inconvenienced,' declared the old lady. `Something must be done.'
'I'll switch on the television and see if there's any news-Lady Manderly, could we have your radio on and find out what's happening?'
`If you wish. It's in my bedroom. Is there no other radio in the house?"
'We can't find one-we didn't like to look in Martha's rooms.' Jemima went to the door, longing to sit by the fire for just a little while.
She switched on the television before she went to fetch the radio, but the picture was so bad she couldn't make head or tail of it. The radio was more helpful, although hardly offering good news. Blizzards covered large parts of Scotland, gales and very low temperatures were expected; already people were stranded in cars, and villages cut off. Jemima switched off and put the set on the table at Lady Manderly's elbow without mentioning the weather conditions, then went back to the kitchen.
The Aga seemed to eat coal; she swathed herself in the cloak and opened the back door. The wheelbarrow with its load of fuel was buried under a pile of snow. She went back inside, got the coal shovel, put on gloves, and laboriously got rid of the snow, already ominously frozen, and then for want of anything better, tugged and pulled the wheelbarrow into the kitchen, where it stood untidily, the snow slowly sliding and slipping from the coal on to the floor and making great puddles.
Pooley made tea presently and Jemima carried a tray along to Lady Manderly. She poured tea for them both and sat down opposite the old lady, hopeful of making their situation clear to her, but in this she was disappointed. Lady Manderly didn't want to know, everything would be all right in the morning; she would eat her dinner earlier than usual and go to bed.
She cast an annoyed look at Jemima. `And unless you can make yourself presentable, I will dine alone,' she pronounced.
Which was a good thing really, since it left Jemima free to get on with the cooking while Pooley crept round the house, making sure that windows and doors were secure and drawing the curtains to keep out the cold, before helping Lady Manderly to change her dress for the evening, something which Jemima found most pathetic. She herself was looking very much the worse for wear by now, but at least the chicken supreme was going to be a success; she had cooked a great pile of potatoes, arranged a salad on a side dish, and cut up the rest of the chicken for a casserole for the next day.
What with a can of soup, the potatoes puree' d, the salad and the tinned fruit, dinner was quite a success. Pooley reported that it was being eaten, as she went to and fro with the dishes and asked eagerly what they were going to eat.
`Bacon, fried potatoes, baked beans, and I've made a treacle tart-we might as well have a good supper.'
They went to bed after the nine o'clock news; it seemed to be the best place after the tale of bad weather, storms and snowdrifts and more to come. Jemima got into bed, her head still full of ways and means to get more coal into the house and how best to use the food there was, but she soon abandoned this to think about Alexander Cator. Her thoughts, though loving, were a trifle peevish too; he would be warm and well fed, probably enjoying himself with Gloria. Scotland must seem a long way off from London, as yet untroubled by snow and ice and gale force winds. She slept on the thought.
She woke at her usual time and, wrapped in her dressing gown, with a sweater over her nightie, she crept downstairs. It was still dark, but she peered from the kitchen window and was appalled to see that it was almost covered by snow and, what was far worse, the central heating wasn't working. She raked and stoked the Aga, put on the kettle and went along to the sitting-room. It was like an ice house, and the fire, long since out, merely served to make it seem colder. She cleared the ashes and left the grate empty; whether she liked it or not, Lady Manderly would have to sit in the kitchen. Pooley joined her presently, and they had a cup of tea and planned their day. 'You'd have thought that a house this size would have electric fires or gas, or something,' observed Pooley.
`Yes, but I suspect no one ever stays here during the winter and Martha and Angus have their own rooms. I do wish they hadn't locked their doors-there might be an oil stove there or calor gas...' They looked at each other.
`We could break down the door,' suggested Pooley, not meaning it.
`We may have to,' said Jemima, and did.
Lady Manderly didn't take kindly to the idea of sitting in her kitchen, but she was forced to agree that there was really nothing else to do about it. She came downstairs just before lunch, with Pooley trailing behind her, bearing wraps and shawls and Coco prancing behind, and she sat down in the armchair Jemima had carried through from the sittingroom. Thanks to the Aga, the room was warm and the casserole, bubbling gently, gave off a delicious smell.
Jemima, the meal on and the breakfast dishes washed, had left Pooley to tidy the bedrooms, piled on a quantity of jackets and scarves, got back into the boots and gone outside. Not without difficulty-the snow, beginning to fall again, had piled up outside the door and it was a fight to get through it. And once there, she wasn't sure where to begin. The path she had so laboriously made had disappeared again, so for that matter had the shovel and most of the shed. She found the shovel and began to clear a way to the coal; something they simply had to have at all costs. It took her the whole morning, but finally she shoved the wheelbarrow, full once more, into the kitchen.
`Coal!' enquired Lady Manderly, going purple. `In the kitchen?'
Jemima mumbled something; it was a waste of breath trying to make the old lady understand that life was going to be a bit basic until the weather got better-or someone rescued them-Alexander, for instance. Very unlikely, she thought. His logical mind would have assessed their plight by now and decided that they would be comfortable enough in a house well stocked with food, with light and heat and plenty of hot water-only it wasn't quite like that...
She peeled off her wet things, got into another sweater and skirt and started on lunch.
It was almost teatime when the water gave up. Jemima had already filled everything possible with water; they could manage for days with what they had, only baths would be impossible, and she didn't dare think what would happen when the thaw set in. Lady Manderly woke from a refreshing nap and they had a cup of tea and the last of the bread, the butter spread with a miserly hand by Jemima. They had just finished when the electricity went off, came on again for a few minutes, and then went off again.
By the light of an oil lamp and a couple of candles, the kitchen looked cosy, while the supper cooked jacket potatoes and grated cheese; Jemima fetched a pack of cards and played a fast game of Racing Demon while Pooley sat mending by the light of a candle. She was a splendid needlewoman, but Jemima doubted if the cobweb darn she was working upon would be quite up to her usual standard in such a dim light.
Their hopes that the electricity might come on again slowly faded. Jemima set the table for supper and they gathered round. It was not a very happy meal; Pooley was ill at ease and Jemima and Lady Manderly carried on the kind of conversation which the British, as a race, tend to indulge in when confronted by an awkward situation-the weather, vague world politics, the newest fashions-hardly a successful topic since both ladies had conflicting views on them-Wimbledon and the Royal Family. Not once did their talk descend to the personal, no names were
mentioned and no mention was made of their return to London.
Lady Manderly rose from the table and announced: `I shall go to bed. You're a good cook, Jemima, and the claret was exactly the one I should have chosen myself. Pooley, come with me and when I'm in bed you may fetch me a glass of hot milk and brandy.'
'There's no milk,' Jemima pointed out gently. `Goodnight, Lady Manderly.'
Getting into bed in her icy room an hour later, she comforted herself with the thought that nothing more could happen now; they had had the worst.
She was proved to be wrong. Pooley fell downstairs and broke an arm. It was fortunate, though not from her point of view, of course, that this occurred after she had helped Lady Manderly to dress. She had been carrying the breakfast tray, which had fallen with her, scattering broken china, marmalade, a precious remnant of butter, and tea-leaves in all directions.
